


Taking Responsibility

by SubspaceAlien



Series: Coping Techniques [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Roller Coaster, First Time, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Indulgent, Spanking, bewildered john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-10-14 02:18:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10526811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SubspaceAlien/pseuds/SubspaceAlien
Summary: A bad day takes a toll on John and Sherlock differently, as John finds out the hard way.





	1. A Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> I want to be clear: This fic deals with self-harm in the form of cutting. The act itself is not shown, but the physical result is. It's not graphic or extreme, but it is potentially triggering/upsetting. Please consider this before reading, make sure you're keeping yourself safe. 
> 
> On another note, I consider this a throwback to the beginning of this fandom. Please put this near the beginning of the timeline, where our boys are comfortable with each other, but before major plot points. This fic is horribly self-indulgent on my part and is shameless and so am I.  
> I do not own Sherlock.

It had been a long, frustrating day (and half the night, to be honest) of chasing dead-ends in their current case. Endless cab rides, talking to nothing but unhelpful people, and truly horrible Chinese food to top it all off. John’s feet ached as he pulled off his shoes on his way to bedroom, limping in a way he didn’t like to notice. It was only because of the excessive amount of walking that day, he assured himself. A damned lot of walking. Not liking the way that dark mood hung on his shoulders, John ever-the-soldier Watson addressed himself firmly: let the frustrating, horrid, exhausting case go for tonight. Sleep now.

Although he didn’t feel particularly refreshed by the thought, John did notice a loosening of his muscles, just a bit. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, shaking himself physically at the end of the exhale. Ahh, there. That was a bit more like it. He was a little more clear-headed and calm now, and wanted nothing more than to sleep peacefully through the night. John smiled as he let himself fall face-first into his bed, not caring that he was still dressed except for those damn shoes. The pillow his face pressed into was soft, and he sunk just a wonderful bit into the mattress. The contented smile on his face faded a bit, however, as his sleepy thoughts wandered to his partner in, well, solving crime. John knew that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to shrug off the no-leads, no-progress day as easily as he had. Sherlock had a way of staying in whatever mood life directed him to, especially if it was a pissy mood.

On the final taxi ride home, Sherlock had been completely silent and still, as though he were nothing but a wax figure. It might have unnerved John when they had first met, but by now he was used to it. When Sherlock was in a mood, the people around him simply had to tough it out. Sometimes John tried to help when Sherlock was really in a funk, by making him snacks throughout the day and telling him that yes, he really did need a shower, and reminding him-

Damn. John Watson, on the verge of sleep, had just reminded himself that he had not brushed his teeth before bed. Damn, damn, damn! He tried to tell himself that it didn’t really matter, not one night, but the soldier in him screamed against this breach of protocol. Even one night was unacceptable, a falter in personal hygiene was unbecoming of a military man! John sighed heavily into his pillow, knowing that this issue wouldn’t settle in his mind until he just bit the bullet and did the damn thing. He groaned loudly and shoved himself up and out of bed. His vision was just a bit blurry from being pushed into a pillow only moments before, but that was no matter. He could, and often did, find his way to the bathroom in the dark.

As he approached the closed bathroom door with the light spilling out from underneath, John groaned again as he heard the shower running. Sherlock was already taking a shower, and who knew how long that was going to take? Sometimes the ‘consulting detective’ took impossible 2-minute showers (amazingly enough he seemed to get the job done, he was perfectly clean when he emerged a mere 120 seconds after the water turned on), and sometimes the water must have been completely cold by the time Sherlock relinquished his claim on the bathroom. What would it be this time? John decided that he didn’t have time to find out. He cleared his throat once, and then slowly began opening the door as he called loudly, “Sherlock, I’ve forgotten to brush my teeth, I’ll just…” His voice just trailed off weakly as his brain began to register what he was seeing.

The room was already full of steam, clouding up the mirror and making the air thick and slightly oppressive. The humidity had already started to take its toll on Sherlock. His thick black hair had separated into individual, tight curls, and a slight sheen of moisture made his skin shine. John could see this because Sherlock was not in the shower stall as he had previously thought. Sherlock was standing by the shower in his dark pants and dress shirt, though the shirt was open (John noticed briefly that the fly of pants was open as well and the pants were tugged down a bit to reveal sharp hipbones, but he didn’t linger there, no sir). All these thoughts came to John simultaneously, as well as a sense of embarrassment. He had meant to dash in and out, maybe never even noticed by his flat mate who was supposed to be behind a curtain and surrounded by loud, rushing water.

The next set of thoughts crashed right through the first. First, he noticed Sherlock’s strange hunched-over posture, his right hand loosely holding something small close to his left hip. Like he was hiding something and had been caught in the act. An act. What act? Secondly, Sherlock had not moved since John had started opening the door. He was as still and lifeless as he had been in the taxi, but there was a different quality to this posture. Combined with the wide eyes that were staring at him, John was able to identify the behavior, weirdly enough, as fear. In terms of fight-or-flight, Sherlock’s mind and body had decided to act as a prey animal.

Third, right on the heels of the others, came the thought of ‘He’s got a razor blade.’ This was accompanied by a feeling of being punched in the gut. John didn’t understand yet, but he had enough information, in just a few seconds, to be on high alert. And afraid. And then the final piece of information: There was a series of thin lines of scabbing on the inside of Sherlock’s left hipbone. And a few scars, impossibly white against the paleness of Sherlock’s skin. And a fresh cut, in line with the others, an angry red line with just a hint of movement as a tiny amount of blood seeped to the surface. John’s doctor/soldier-mind identified it as shallow and minor, an automatic triage process. John’s John-mind, however, stopped dead. His body stilled, imitating Sherlock, and his breathing seemed to lock up.

Only the running shower seemed alive in that room. A few seconds passed, though they felt like hours, until Sherlock broke the stalemate by taking in a sharp breath. Immediately he used it, schooling his face into a cold mask once more, to address John, his voice low and unfriendly. “Get out.” Before the two words were fully out of his mouth, however, John’s brain had kicked back into gear and he threw himself at Sherlock without a second thought, grabbing Sherlock’s hand and wrenching it forcibly away from his body. He snatched the razor blade out of his hand, then stared at it for a solid beat in his own hand before hurling it away from himself as if badly burned. A slight smear of blood lingered on his palm.

John lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock’s, but the taller man tore his hand out of John’s grip and took a step back, arms wrapping protectively around himself. He repeated himself, “Get out,” although there was no force behind the words this time. They were spoken softly, as Sherlock’s gaze rapidly became glued to the tile floor of the bathroom. His gaze became unfocused, taking in everything but seeing nothing.

Inside Sherlock’s mind thoughts were racing, but also somehow it felt completely blank. It felt like ideas and possibilities were zipping all around him, but he couldn’t see them, much less comprehend. Primarily he was feeling things, emotions, useless things. He was feeling anger at John’s intrusion. He was feeling regret at not locking the door. He was feeling, and desperately fighting not to feel, shame and guilt searing deep into the very core of him. Other countless, smaller emotions whirled around too, not staying still long enough for him to identify them. It was maddening. There was no escape from this. John had seen everything. No excuse or explanation was going to undo this. Sadness crept in, deep sadness over the possibility of losing John from his life. Mostly, Sherlock wanted to not be here. Possibly, there was an answer somewhere in his mind palace; He should escape, he should go look in his mind palace.

Sherlock was just about to grab that lifeline and escape when John snapped into action again, grabbing the collar of Sherlock’s open shirt and he shook him once, hard. He screamed something into Sherlock’s face, only vaguely aware that the words were, “What the fuck?!” Sherlock’s eyes remained on the floor, unfocused. He didn’t respond. John’s fear and reactionary anger flared up again and he gave Sherlock’s collar another shake before shoving him backward roughly.

Something about the combination of noise, physical aggression, and now the space between them brought Sherlock back to the real world, where John was still there and apparently needed to be interacted with. Sherlock drew in a shaky breath, though he tried to hide its thin quality. His eyes were sharp and almost back to normal as he casually rearranged his open shirt to cover his hip. Using a calculated, light voice, he asked quietly, “What are the odds that you just…turn around and forget this happened?”

“Don’t,” came John’s terse reply immediately. “Just don’t, don’t fucking joke, Sherlock!” His voice gained volume with each word, yelling the other’s name. “This is not something you joke about! This is…” His voice lowered as he hesitated, “This is…”

“None of your business,” Sherlock supplied, outwardly cool. “This has nothing to do with you.”

John stared hard at Sherlock. “Are you mad? Of course it’s got to do with me! I’m your flat mate, your business partner, I’m your friend! Of course this concerns me!” The feeling in John’s stomach of being punched was loosening, but he wasn’t sure that was any better. Now it felt like his stomach was actively twisting. Words were falling out of his mouth while he was distracted by the intense discomfort. “I’m angry, Sherlock! I’m angry because you should have told me, you should have…Hell, I don’t even know if I should feel angry. I mean, I feel…Oh, Sherlock,” he finished miserably. John suddenly felt exhausted. He closed his eyes slowly, painfully.

He continued to speak with his eyes remaining shut, but Sherlock didn’t hear any of the words. He was focusing on keeping his shit together, at least on the outside. His breathing was too fast, too shallow, and Sherlock tried desperately to slow it. There was a misty feeling in his chest, not just from the shower. His belly was clenched, every muscle in his body was tense. His eyes were unfocused again, and the images he vaguely saw began to wobble. Disgust at himself flared up. Tears, from Sherlock Holmes? He managed to focus on that distain, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment to clear them. Two tears fell, coursing down his high cheekbones, leaving incriminating trails behind them. Of course, that’s when John opened his eyes and finally looked at Sherlock.

John’s breath rushed in as a tiny gasp. He had never seen Sherlock cry, never anything close to it. Really, Sherlock’s emotions seemed to be limited to exhilaration and peevishness most of the time. Not this. A profound sadness filled him, as he realized just how much Sherlock must keep from, despite being Sherlock’s closest friend. How lonely that must be. How overwhelming. He instinctively reached out to take the thin shoulders gently in his hands, to prove solidarity in a decided masculine way.

As John reached for him, Sherlock’s body apparently reached critical stress. While trying not to cry, he had neglected to calm his breathing, and that brought consequences. Specifically, an acute light-headedness swept over Sherlock, and his body abruptly sagged, his legs suddenly boneless. As he began to fall, he felt John’s hands move from his shoulders to wrap Sherlock in his arms instead. John’s knees hit the floor first, and he grunted but held firm, making sure that Sherlock’s impact was less forceful than his own. And then they were both kneeling on the cold tile, John’s arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, Sherlock’s arms still tightly around himself, forehead resting on John’s shoulder. John found himself staring at the tub behind Sherlock, wondering what the hell had just happened.

Sherlock was shaking, just a little bit. He took a long breath in, hating the way his lungs shuddered. As he exhaled slowly, a very small amount of the tension in his arms and shoulders drained. His forehead weighed heavily on John’s shoulder as he breathed in again, this time a little smoother, a little calmer. The shaking was already less, but not gone.


	2. Recon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, please enjoy.

John was terrified. Give him an active battleground with wounded to attend to any day over this. That, he would be familiar with. This, on the other hand, was completely new territory with no rules of combat. If this were combat, what would the next move be? The answer came to him: recon. Gather information. That was going to be difficult, and take tact. John desperately did not want to spook Sherlock. He had never seen Sherlock like this before, and didn’t want to make it worse.

Using the softest, least judgmental voice he could muster under the circumstances, John began his mission. “So…I…help me understand, yeah?” He hesitated, and got absolutely no response from Sherlock. The wasn’t even a change in his breathing. John decided to brave on. “I mean…Why? Why do this to yourself? Is it…is it for pain?” Sherlock stiffened a bit at that, and even though John was made queasy by hearing the words come out of his mouth, he was glad for a reaction. He didn’t know whether to keep pushing or not, when Sherlock surprised him by answering.

A very small voice came out of the space between their bodies, “In a nutshell.”

John waited, but no further response came. He was at once encouraged by Sherlock talking and frustrated by the vague words. “But…why, though? What does hurting yourself accomplish?” He hated hearing those words out loud, hated that he had to ask that question of his closest friend.

“It,” Sherlock began, in the same small voice. Then he stopped, and inhaled slowly. It was maddening. He let it out, and tried again in a voice just a bit stronger. “It’s complicated. I believe it’s best explained like a reset button. For my brain.” His voice was deadpan and cold, and just a little bored. It was closer to the Sherlock John knew and…loved, he supposed. In a friend’s way. “For emotions, especially. Useless things, anyway…They get in the way and distract me, and it’s overwhelming. I have to get away from that, in order to think.”

John tried to simply absorb what he was hearing, without judgement or too much emotion. He spoke up to clarify, “And…and hurting yourself does that, does it?” This time there was no vocal answer from Sherlock. Instead of words, he simply let out a sigh and relaxed a bit more, at this point relying completely on John to hold him up.

John didn’t even notice Sherlock’s weight because his mind was racing. Taking in the information, weighing different options, trying to formulate what his next words would be. Without fully thinking out the next strategy, John let words flow from his mind freely. He just had an urgent need to keep communication going, and was as surprised as Sherlock was to hear himself ask, “Does it have to be you?”

“What?” Sherlock’s voice was guarded, and John had a moment of wonder as he realized that it was because Sherlock didn’t know John’s thought process behind the question. Well, John didn’t quite understand himself either, so it was a hollow victory.

John clarified, “Does it have to be you hurting yourself? Does it work if someone else hurts you?”

Sherlock’s mind was starting to become calmer, now that it was clear that John wasn’t just going to leave. He wasn’t even shouting anymore. There was no aggression in John’s questions, and Sherlock noted that even though he was clearly uncomfortable, John was putting in great effort to understand him. John cared about him. Although he didn’t know what John was getting at, Sherlock felt comfortable enough to answer again.

“…It doesn’t have to be me. In the past, I have used other people, I suppose. They didn’t realize, obviously, to them it was just rough sex.”

Abruptly, John wondered again at the situation he found himself in: Clutching his best friend on the bathroom floor, listening to the sordid details of his sex life. He waited, but it appeared that Sherlock was done answering.

 “So…you’ve actually found people,” John thought desperately to himself: Don’t hesitate when you say this, make it sound normal, for God’s sake don’t make this weird, “to cut you during sex? I didn’t think too many people were into that sort of thing.”

To John’s surprise, Sherlock let out a snort of harsh laughter. “No, they never…No. If it’s someone else, it works with less…. ah, less…”

“Less extreme measures?” John’s voice was dry as he supplied the answer. Sherlock stiffened a bit, and it hurt to hear the judgement so clearly. He hated that John’s description was accurate. He tightened his arm around his own body, securing his left hipbone. John noticed that he had struck a nerve, but decided that the damage was already done, so he continued, “So if it’s someone rather than you, it can be a less blatantly harmful thing. Like…like kinky stuff? Like spanking?”

John had meant it as a joke to lighten the mood, but Sherlock immediately replied with a flat, “Among other things.”

A crazy mental image presented itself to John, of what that must look like. A vague concept of a long-limbed and naked Sherlock bent over the lap of a leather-clad woman (man?) shoved itself to the forefront of John’s mind before he shoved it roughly away. He had to pivot this conversation, right now. “So, ah, it’s good when you have another person. They do less harmful things than you do, because they have boundaries, unlike you, apparently…” John didn’t know why he said that. He waited, afraid that he had offended Sherlock.

Sherlock, however, didn’t seem to notice the bump in the conversation. “Exactly,” he remarked dryly. He seemed to find a sort of bravery to elaborate, and his voice hardened a bit as he explained, “I know that I can’t fucking trust myself. Obviously. I can, generally, trust other people’s morals to control their actions. In essence, to keep me safe while I get what I need.”

John loosened his grip on Sherlock, slowly, and moved back until he was holding Sherlock’s shoulders at arm’s length. He tried to read Sherlock’s face, but his eyes were still unfocused, now pointed at the floor between John’s knees. But John noticed they were just a little sharper now. There was a ghost of an angry draw to his eyebrows. Perhaps he was starting to feel like his usual self? Hopefully. John’s mouth was dry, but he felt like he should say something. “So, ah… So you were in here because your emotions were heightened, and from the day we had I shouldn’t wonder, and…Ah fuck, this hasn’t helped, has it?” He let go of Sherlock gently, respectfully. 

Sherlock’s mouth quirked up briefly on one side in a sardonic smile as he leaned back against the bathtub. It was short-lived, however. John had meant well, but bringing up the events of the day, just as Sherlock had begun to relax, was the wrong thing to do. Sherlock felt his emotions rise up again swiftly, stoked up from their embers.

John watched this all play out on Sherlock’s face, and as his friend’s eyes went distant again, John panicked. If Sherlock retreated now, would he come back? He acted on instinct- and slapped Sherlock. He was immediately horrified at what he had done, his hand hurt and the impact had been so loud. But Sherlock was finally looking him in the eyes. Not only were his eyes sharp now, they were piercing, in an intensely questioning way. Finally, Sherlock was fully present.

Other changes began to present themselves to John. He noticed that Sherlock’s mouth was just a little bit open, relaxed. His breathing was clearly visible in the slow but pronounced movement of his chest in his open dress shirt. One long hand slowly reached up to touch his reddening cheek, as if testing to see if it was real. John noticed a difference in the way Sherlock’s pants formed over the front his body, but that thought was aborted as fast as it appeared. It must be the endorphin rush, sometimes that sort of thing happened. Not uncommon.

That explanation was defeated by Sherlock’s calmly stated response, “You either need to do that again, or leave now and forget what you saw.” John’s thought process shot apart in a million different directions. He began to panic almost immediately, his mind flailing for the right response, when a fear of losing Sherlock forever lose to the surface. That clinched it and before John knew what he had decided, he had struck Sherlock across the other cheek.

This time when Sherlock’s head snapped to the side, he left it there. His eyes remained closed and his breathing deep and slow. Then, laboriously, he opened his eyes and turned his head back to face John. There was a heat in his eyes that John had only witnessed a handful of times before, and that had been moments before he physically attacked someone. But Sherlock didn’t seem likely to attack…his body was actually relaxed, slumped up against the tub wall. There was something…suggestive about it. It didn’t help that Sherlock’s shirt draped open to show goosebumps and (Oh God) erect nipples. John wished that Sherlock would say something, but he didn’t. He just stared at John.

As John wracked his thoughts, again looking for the right thing to do in this bizarre situation, he was surprised to note his own emotional state. On the one hand, he was happy that Sherlock was now present and focused, less in danger of slipping away into his own mind. If that happened, he might never let John get close to him again. As the danger of that seemed less, however, John became aware of his previous anger returning. What Sherlock was doing to himself was wrong. Unbelievably wrong. Shouldn’t Sherlock be reprimanded for it? Shouldn’t he be punished for his trespass, even if it was against himself?

Unbelievably, John continued down this thought process. Well, wouldn’t it help Sherlock on two fronts? It would give Sherlock that release from his emotions, which John felt guilty for causing in the first place. Sherlock wouldn’t need a repeat performance just to come down from this altercation. It would also teach Sherlock a lesson. Hurting himself wouldn’t seem so appealing to Sherlock once John had really shown him what pain was. Feeling emboldened by this single-minded thinking, and fueled by righteousness and still a bit of fear, John grabbed Sherlock’s upper arms and hauled him up a bit, turned him in the air, and tipped him forward with his hips against the lip of the tub.

Sherlock gasped as he was moved quickly, but his body remained pliant. He caught himself with straight arms against the porcelain of the tub floor as he was lowered. Water from the shower, still running warm, played with his hair and ran gently down one side of his face. The front of Sherlock’s hip bones had hit the side of the tub, and he was acutely aware of a small, sharp pain caused by the force to his recent cut. His pants had been loosely arranged around his hips to begin with, and now with all this movement…they were around his knees, puddled on the tile floor. When John had first entered the bathroom, Sherlock had felt vulnerable and exposed. Now, he realized, that had been nothing. 

Embarrassment and shame showed their ugly faces once again, but Sherlock noted that he also found the situation to be exhilarating. He couldn’t have moved even if he wanted to. He didn’t have much time to linger on those emotions, anyway. John was carried by his own momentum, and with a consequences-be-damned mentality, he slapped Sherlock’s arse cheek harder than he meant to. The sound was similar to when the impact had been against Sherlock’s face, and the sting in his hand felt just the same.

Sherlock gasped, but showed no signs of struggle as the impact site blanched, then slowly filled in with pink. Emboldened, John rained down five more hard blows all at once, until the accumulated pain spilled over Sherlock’s threshold and he finally cried out wordlessly. This sudden sound startled John, and he was hit all at once with a sober kind of guilt. Oh God, he thought, I’m hitting Sherlock. I’m causing him physical pain. On purpose. Horrified, John pulled away from Sherlock and began to speak, “I…Uh, Sherlock, I- “

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Sherlock interrupted, not bothering to raise his head from where it sagged over the tub. He was actually looking at the razor blade where it had fallen in the tub when John had thrown it. It was being covered by constantly shifting water from the shower head, water that was swiftly becoming cold. Surprisingly, Sherlock didn’t find it compelling to look at anymore. Instead, he stretched out a long arm to shut the water off.

John was startled by his own thoughts reprimanding him as he watched Sherlock stretch: Oh my God, don’t look at his body. He’s naked. His arse is turning red because I hit him, I hurt Sherlock. But of course John was looking at Sherlock’s body. He couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t help but notice that yes, what he had noticed about Sherlock earlier was an erection. And then Sherlock had turned the water off, and turned to face him. John blurted out, “Is sex always tied up in this?” A blush began creeping over his cheeks as he tried to recover, “I mean, your…I just…”

Sherlock lowered himself to sit on the tile floor, bringing his knees up to his chest, feeling his pants sink even lower toward the ground. Hiding his face behind one hand did nothing to hide the blush that rushed to the surface. Once more, he was exposed. Could he keep nothing from John tonight? What more could John possibly learn in this one short span of time?? When he answered John, his voice was tight as he explained, “It…it doesn’t have to be. It isn’t always. The word for it is masochist.” His next words were spoken faster, sounding more defensive. “I don’t do this for the arousal. I don’t want you to think… Such a meaningless thing is not compelling enough on its own.”

He paused, and seemed to consider whether or not to continue. After a deep breath he did. He sounded a little more detached, a little more normal, when he said, “But it is a side-effect. I… cannot stop any physical reaction that my body has. I…” Sherlock’s lip quirked up again as he looked mildly startled. “Oh hell, John, what are we doing right now?” He was returning to his baseline, his rational self. Sobering up. Sherlock knew that his body would soon follow suit, returning to its baseline. The only evidence would be a lingering shame and a tingling, burning sensation on his skin. And then those would fade.

John was taken aback, and didn’t have a clue how to answer that question. “I…I don’t know, Sherlock. I’m…helping someone I care about?” Sherlock’s breath slipped out audibly as a small smile crossed his face. He relaxed back against the tub, turning his head to the side and closing his eyes. He looked…really vulnerable, in an endearing way. John realized that he had never seen Sherlock like this, so approachable and soft. He wanted to reach out and…What? Touch his friend? Touch his friend’s naked body?

Sherlock’s eyes opened and looked up at John. “Yes, you helped. And if you want to go now, that’s fine. I’m not going to hurt myself tonight, doctor.” John hesitated, then spoke up softly.

“Do you want me to go?”

 Sherlock appeared to really consider the situation for a moment, then replied, “No.” John’s heart skipped and he moved closer to Sherlock before he could stop himself. Incredibly, Sherlock seemed to relax further as he approached, rather than tense up.

Gently, hesitantly, John asked, “Can…Can I touch you?” It was a risky thing to ask, but Sherlock’s eyes remained soft and even looked a little curious. He nodded. John rushed to add, “I mean, touch-touch… you.”

Sherlock’s mouth, still slack from the first slap, upturned gently into a small smile. He replied calmly, “I know what you mean.”


	3. Climax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience, please enjoy.

John made a point to move slowly and carefully as he reached out one hand to touch Sherlock’s reddened cheek. There was a slight warmth radiating off the skin there. Sherlock closed his eyes again and slightly leaned into John’s touch, gently biting his own lower lip. John found himself fixated on that, Sherlock’s white teeth holding the lip captive, so gently. He felt a pull from that sight, and allowed himself to lean forward and kiss that captivating mouth.

Instantly swallowed up in sensations, John marveled at the softness of Sherlock’s lips. Those lips were gently returning his pressure, giving and receiving small kisses…Slow and hesitant at first, no lingering contact. Gradually, the pace quickened until brief kisses blended into each other into longer, more passionate kisses. The breathing of both men became faster. John aggressively moved closer to Sherlock, who remained wonderfully pliant and vulnerable. Breaking away from Sherlock’s mouth, John immediately dove for Sherlock’s long, pale neck, kissing and nipping at it possessively. There was a sense of ownership growing in John’s mind along the lines of, if I can claim him, I can protect him. I can keep him safe…from himself. 

John was about to break away and ask Sherlock outright if he was okay with what was happening when Sherlock moaned his name once, so quietly. There was a surge of blood to his core and he bit down on Sherlock’s neck again, harder this time. Sherlock moaned again, louder this time, and then hissed, “John, please.” Desperate to give Sherlock anything he needed, John realized that pain was still on the table, although he wanted to keep it a little tamer at this point. 

John gently ran his fingertips over Sherlock’s ear, continuing the movement to infiltrate Sherlock’s thick, dark hair. He was careful to keep the movement casual and soft, until he reached the nape of Sherlock’s neck. John’s hand sprang like a trap, grabbing a handful of the beautiful hair that he had wanted to touch for so long (Wait, really? That was news to John…Or rather, it wasn’t, was it?) and tightening his fist around it. The moan forced from Sherlock’s throat jolted down John’s spine, and he forced himself to focus.

“Sherlock,” he growled softly. “Look at me.” Long lashes fluttered as his command was followed, and John maneuvered Sherlock’s head by his hair until their faces were inches apart. Sherlock’s long torso was now pulled away from the tub wall, back slightly arched as he silently peered into John’s eyes. “Listen to me now. I’m going to hurt you, but not a lot.” Stay strong now, he impressed to himself, don’t be distracted by how his pupils just got larger. How his breathing stopped for just a moment, how…oh hell, just focus. “I’m going to give you what you need, but it’s going to be on my terms. Understand?”

Seeming to respond favorably to the military brusqueness, Sherlock tried to nod in response. Being reminded that he couldn’t move his head sent a new rush of blood to his already-throbbing cock. Perhaps John felt this sensation too, because he simultaneously leaned in to gently kiss Sherlock’s captive mouth and reached down with his other hand to wrap his fingers around Sherlock’s cock, meaning to be gentle but radiating possessiveness instead. The sudden touch wrenched a surprised whimper from Sherlock, muffled by John’s lips, and his hands shot to the damp hem of his dress shirt, desperate for something to hold. Afraid that John would doubt his own boldness, Sherlock slowly rolled his hips once, his breath hitching as every sensitive inch of him dragged along John’s hand. 

John felt instantly emboldened by Sherlock’s response. He gripped a bit tighter with both hands, one holding his detective in place and the other stimulating him. All of John’s movements were at a moderate pace, maddeningly so, but the saving grace was the strength hinted at by his firm grip. There was a carefully controlled power there, one that Sherlock at once respected and wanted to pry at, hoping to have it unleashed on himself. Before Sherlock could begin to devise a plan to provoke just that, John released his grip on all that thick hair and broke their kiss, immediately returning to the spot on Sherlock’s neck where he had bitten perhaps a bit too hard. There was already an angry red mark there, one that would almost certainly become a bruise. In for a penny, John mused to himself before biting down again on the same spot. 

A wordless cry forced itself from Sherlock’s body, and John smirked against his skin. His fist still wrapped around Sherlock’s cock, moving with the same horribly steady pace, John used his free hand to yank the dress shirt from his bony shoulders. The newly exposed vastness of Sherlock’s back was too tempting not to trace with his fingertips, and so he happily indulged himself.

Sherlock observed all these sensations given to his body, all growing steadily and threatening to overwhelm him. This building tension wasn’t like his previous mental state, however, because this was all happening with John, who hadn’t simply run screaming. The throbbing pain in his neck was quickly becoming less urgent than John’s hand on his cock, the steady movements finally reaching something close to critical mass. His arousal, which had sprung into existence the moment John had discovered him, seemed close to driving him mad. Or perhaps he already was mad? Really, who gets off on pain and shame? John had simply become a casualty of Sherlock’s perversion, and clearly-

Sherlock’s thought process completely shut down as John raked his fingernails down Sherlock’s long back, hard. He didn’t even realize he was coming until John’s hand on his cock loosened a bit, still stroking steadily as Sherlock’s come spurted messily onto them both. The noises Sherlock observed coming from his own mouth were controlled, sad-sounding whimpers instead of the screaming he felt inside his body. His eyes were screwed shut on their own accord, brows down as if he was in pain. All the muscles in his body were tense, locked up…and then every muscle finally relaxed. His body slumped foreword toward John again, who easily caught him.

John gathered up Sherlock’s long limbs and maneuvered both of them until he had his back resting against the tub wall, Sherlock cradled in his arms and against his chest. The detective’s eyes were still closed, but gently so, and his breathing was slow and regular. Deciding to take a risk, John began to gently stroke Sherlock’s hair. A feeling of accomplishment and entitlement was creeping up on John in a very pleasant way and it only strengthened as Sherlock allowed him to pet his hair without complaint. If John didn’t know any better, he would say the look on Sherlock’s face was peaceful…But that had to be his own ego talking, right? Embarrassed by his own thought process, John cleared his throat and forced himself to ask, “So uh…How are you feeling?”

Startling just a bit at the noise, Sherlock kept his eyes closed and seemed to ponder for a moment. He sounded a lot more like himself when he muttered, “Selfish.” Sherlock began to reach a lethargic hand toward John’s fly as if to open it, but John gently caught his hand and held it to his lips instead. 

Before Sherlock could even ask, John explained, “Sherlock, I…I want to do this. For you. And I think maybe for myself, too? Oh hell, I don’t know what I’m feeling, Sherlock. I just…Can we just leave it like this for tonight?” He drew his arms tighter around Sherlock. “I like being close to you, I know that. Later tonight I’ll go for a walk and figure things out on my end, but I like helping you. I like…I like keeping you safe. Even from yourself.” John laughed a little at that as if to soften it, but both men knew the hard truth of the matter. 

Sherlock had been pliant in his arms and silent during his whole speech, and John was beginning to suspect that he had fallen asleep when a sleepy murmur drifted up to his ears. “Yeah, okay.” With that, Sherlock truly did appear to slip off into sleep, his face softening as he relaxed completely against John’s chest.

John simply sat there, watching his sleeping detective. A smile played around his lips. He thought to himself: This feels like the start of something new.

**Author's Note:**

> Lord have mercy on my sorry soul.


End file.
